A Hundred Echoes
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: Chapter 3, wherein the debriefing is held. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_ "A Hundred Echoes" by Krissy Mae Anderson__  
_

**Summary:** Ack. I can't think of a coherent summary. Angst happens:-)  
**Rating:** M-ish  
**Pairing:** McKay/Sheppard  
**Spoilers:** general season 2 spoilers up to "Aurora".  
**Disclaimer:** Still not mine, alas!  
**Warnings:** non-con (although not very graphic) somewhere down the road  
**Author's note:** The idea for this fic came to me after I read yet another badly done non-con on Area 52, and was bitching to _Waldo_ that I was really tired of the Magical Healing Penis fics. The fic title is taken from a quote from a book by Milan Kundera. It's not really betaed, so feel free to yell at me if you spot any mistakes. It might take me a while to update this, since I am kinda iffy about SGA at the moment, and am in the middle of a move.  
**Acknowledgements:** The most thanks goes to _Waldo_, who was my cheerleader and sounding board for the outline of this fic and who gave me many great plot suggestions. I would also like to thank _Neth Dugan, jenra, shippygem, sapphocried_ and everyone else who has been badgered by me about the Evilfic.

* * *

**part one**

Rodney was pissed.

For one, Teyla was kicking his ass in Tic Tac Toe. If the word would get out in Atlantis, he'd never live it down. Also, he was out of food, and if he couldn't find something to snack on in the next hour, he was definitely going to go into a hypoglycemic shock, and that wouldn't be pretty, not pretty at all. And lastly, it had been quite a while since they had been locked away in a small dimly lit room while the local warlord negotiated with Colonel Sheppard and Lieutenant Jensen. At least Rodney hoped they were negotiating. His stomach uttered a low wail of desperation and Teyla won another round. Rodney located a little piece of chocolate in his vest pocket and sucked on it, his brain now turned to the negotiations. The warlord, Maxim- Naxor- whatever his name, seemed sane enough, and maybe the Major- John- could persuade him they were just peaceful visitors. If anyone could do this, John certainly could. _John could persuade anyone to do anything sometimes,_ Rodney thought, recalling the very memorable Friday night the week before. He never knew it was possible to use peanut butter in such perverse ways-

"-or? Doctor McKay?" Teyla's voice cut into Rodney's pleasurable flashback and he snapped back to reality, noticing that he was turning his last O into a smiley. Rodney dropped the pen, and his stomach growled again.

"Uh- Sorry, Teyla, my mind's elsewhere," he mumbled, trying to will his stomach to shut up. "Mind if we take a break?"

"Not at all," Teyla said pleasantly, and began practicing some kind of Athosian meditation. Rodney wished he could relax as well, but unfortunately he never learned any yoga back on Earth, and the thing that Teyla was doing was a little bit too complex to pick up by watching - so back to thinking it was. Rodney mentally cursed the culture of R9K-39F, which put anyone in the uniform (such as Lieutenant Travis Jensen, USMC, who barely knew his head from his ass and was only along because he knew a lot about shooting people and blowing up things) above the most brilliant mind of the century. Thankfully John was the one talking to Marx- Xerm- _damn it, the guy's name just kept eluding him _– along with Jensen; if Jensen would've been in charge they would have been fucked big time. Damn it, he missed Ford – he had been annoying at times, but he was funny, at least, and was at any rate somewhat more intelligent than the average Marine in Atlantis. Hopefully the negotiations wouldn't take too much longer, because it was the most damned boring room Rodney had been inside of in his entire life, and if he had to spend another couple of hours inside these four gray walls, he would crack up.

Rodney tried to think about the new theory Zelenka had been explaining to him at breakfast, but his brain complained about the lack of fuel and vetoed any scientific thoughts. Oh God, he was going to die of boredom, the greatest scientific mind in two galaxies extinguished by lack of food and intellectual stimulation. Teyla was fun to be with when stuff was going on and your ass needed saving, Rodney mused, but John was so much more fun to be trapped in a small dark room with. If guards were present, they could talk about such informative concepts as concurrent development of pants on different planets or argue about beer and sports. And if there were no guards – well, Rodney could think of much more pleasurable things to talk about. But John was off negotiating, and Teyla's toes were behind her ear, so the only source of entertainment left was to stare at the wall and try to count all the cracks.

The wall was not terribly exciting and Rodney's thoughts soon turned back to their captors. _What was it with the Pegasus Galaxy and crazy aliens who dressed like SCA rejects?_ First the Genii, who made sure Rodney would never be able to view the Amish the same way again, and now the Irulians, who looked like refugees from a Shakespearian play... Unfortunately, just like the Genii, this motley crew possessed decidedly un-medieval weaponry, as the Atlantis team had discovered when they literally walked into a circle of Irulian warriors. There were about forty of them, and John had wisely decided not to shoot his way out, although Jensen seemed quite tempted. After reluctantly handing over their weapons, the Atlantis team had been taken to their current location, which was a rather large stone building that looked like it came from an Edward Gorey book.

Once there, they had been taken to Maxor, – that was it! – the warlord dude, who stood around and looked menacing for a while before doing the requisite evil villain speech about spies and traitors. John, as the unanimously elected enemy alien spokesperson, lied his ass off about their origin but was quite truthful about being part of a peaceful mission. Maxor didn't seem to believe him about the "peaceful" part, and immediately accused all four of them of being Turmian spies. After blank looks from all four of them Maxor eventually believed that they were not collaborating with yet another race of crazy warrior aliens, but didn't let them go. After more talking and a couple of glasses of something called _ckor_ that tasted like rocket fuel with some solvents thrown in for a good measure, Maxor said that he would negotiate, but only with the warriors, gesturing dismissively towards Rodney. Rodney bristled at that and was about to say "What am I, furniture?" when John kicked him under the table, so Rodney kept his thoughts to himself and kicked John back.

It turned out that Teyla, as a woman, was also not considered a warrior by the Irulians, and thus was expected to leave along with Rodney. After giving Maxor her best "go impale yourself on something pointy" look, Teyla rose and walked to the door, with a morose Rodney following her. And thus, they ended up locked together in this room, waiting for negotiations to end and in Rodney's case, just being bored to tears. Rodney listened to his stomach's complaints for a while, then switched his attention to Teyla's truly impressive contortions, trying to convince himself that he needed to think positively – if everything would go well, he could be sleeping in his own soft bed tonight, instead of sitting in the damn chair that was probably giving him hemorrhoids – and maybe he could persuade John to come over to his room and see what they could make with some chocolate bars, a Bunsen burner and a bowl. Friday was their usual night, but they could do Wednesday this week…

Rodney's reverie was interrupted yet again, this time by a muffled blast that sounded very much like a concussion grenade. Teyla instantly snapped out of the meditation pose and assumed a fighting stance, her eyes trained on the door. Rodney gulped and looked around the room, searching for something to use as a weapon, but everything was nailed to the floor, and oh shit, U.S. Armed Forces grenades didn't mean a good end to the negotiations. Another grenade exploded, this time much closer, and Rodney's brain asked its owner derisively why he ever thought that going to another galaxy was a good idea. Before Rodney could concede that he was not thinking straight when he made that decision the door burst open, revealing a bloodied Jensen clutching two P-90s.

"We're getting the hell out! Go! We'll meet you outside!" the Lieutenant yelled, and Rodney knew that now was definitely the time to haul ass, and haul it as fast as possible. Rodney didn't consider himself very fit, but fear for his life had become a finely honed instinct over the course of last year, so he took off at a speed that would make an Olympic athlete proud. The sound of shooting behind his back and the periodic _fwhoomps_ of the grenades spurred him on, and soon he was outside, following Teyla into the forest. Half a minute after a particularly loud _fwhoomp_ they were joined by Jensen and John, who were looking particularly grimy and ruffled. John looked even worse than Jensen – if the latter was splattered with blood, John looked like he had bathed in it. What the hell happened? But now there was no time to think – they needed to get to the Stargate before the Irulians did, or their ass was grass, so Rodney suppressed his curiosity and ran on.

When they still had about a mile to go, Rodney realized that he was about to cough up a lung. _Damned asthma, always picking the completely worst moment to manifest itself_, he thought gloomily, fumbling for the inhaler that seemed to have relocated to the very bottom of what he had begun to refer to as his medical pocket. Since he had "Doctor" attached to his name, everyone seemed to think that he was supposed to have more medical knowledge than the rest of the team anyway, so Rodney just took to carrying some extra medical supplies along with his inhaler. And at the moment, the before-mentioned medical supplies seemed to have swallowed his Albuterol whole, and Rodney was beginning to panic – he'd keel over, and the Irulians would catch up, and the rest was just too unpleasant to contemplate. Finally, his fingers found the familiar curved piece of plastic, and Rodney cheered up when he managed to get a quick puff as he darted around a tree. Still, his elation was somewhat short-lived, because John suddenly stumbled and went down heavily, slamming into the ground with a muffled "Fuck!"

Rodney rushed to his side, and got to John just as Jensen appeared from the thicket of trees behind them.

"Ankle," John hissed, pointing at the body part in question with a slightly shaking hand. "'s broken, I think. Go on- I'll slow you down. I'll keep them back for as long as I can…"

"No!" Rodney hissed back, fighting the urge to smack John on the head. _Of all the times to be dramatically heroic..._ "You don't leave people in the hands of the enemy, as you're so fond of saying, and I'm not leaving your stupid heroic ass behind. Jensen, help me get him up, and Jo- Major- Colonel, get your arm around my shoulder, and Jensen, you take the other side, and we're going to run like hell!" John and the Lieutenant did as instructed, and in their little formation that looked like a very battered chorus line they were soon once again making their way towards the gate. John's fingers were painfully digging into his shoulder, and Rodney knew that he'd have bruises afterwards, but at the moment he couldn't give a flying fuck.

Finally, the gate came into view, and Rodney breathed a sigh of relief, which turned out to be somewhat premature when the Irulians, who had finally caught up with them, started shooting. The men stumbled towards the gate with renewed urgency, while Teyla returned fire as she stood by the gate.

"Atlantis, we're under attack, be ready to raise the shield the moment we come through!" Jensen yelled into his commlink.

"And get the medical team down to the gateroom!" Rodney huffed out and pressed on forward, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. Just another hundred meters and they would be fine. _One, two, three,_ Rodney counted silently as they moved forward, eyes fixed on the gate. _Almost there, almost there-_

A bullet whizzed by his ear and Rodney leapt into the event horizon full speed, and a moment later, landed hard on the floor of the control room in a tangle with John and Jensen, with Teyla hitting the floor right behind them. Rodney felt strangely detached when he heard several thumps against the shield, and sadly wondered when it had become commonplace for him to be so blasé about people dying, even if they were enemies.

Carson was already waiting with a gurney – _it's like he's got a sixth sense or something,_ Rodney thought - and John gratefully collapsed on it after getting untangled from Rodney and Jensen. Rodney's mind briefly flashed back to a similar scene only two months before – _John on a gurney – John in a coma – let's not go there-_, and he forgot to complain to Carson about his asthma as he tagged along to the infirmary along with a gaggle of concerned onlookers. On the way there, he noticed that one of John's boots was missing, and frowned – this seemed slightly odd, somehow. Rodney thought back to their flight from the Irulians, and he could now remember that the boot had been missing ever since they had all met up. Strange, Rodney wondered, almost running into a doorframe, wonder how he lost it. Soon, they were in the infirmary, and John was whisked off to a separate room. Rodney tried to sneak in and give moral support, but was intercepted by a burly German nurse, who politely booted him out of the infirmary after his physical checked out and told him to come back later.

Not wanting to risk another capture by Nurse Heuberger, Rodney decided that he might as well have some food while he waited for John to be patched up, and even managed to get two and a half meals out of the nice Athosian lunchlady by playing the "pity the poor emotionally distressed scientist" card. He wrapped up some of the pear-things that John really liked in one napkin, and some meat on sticks in another, and ate the rest. After the meal and some good lab coffee hand-delivered to him by a concerned Miko, Rodney felt decidedly less jittery, and had decided to attempt another assault on the infirmary. When he got there, Heuberger was gone, and it took him less than a minute to find out that John was in one of the small rooms reserved for those who had earned an overnight stay. After thanking the nurse profusely, Rodney quickly scanned the horizon for any hostile medical personnel, saw none and headed towards John's room.

**to be continued sometime...  
**


	2. Chapter 2

part 2

Even cleaned up, John still looked like shit, and Rodney couldn't help but compare him to a very bedraggled raccoon. His face was a mess – twin black eyes, a smattering of bruises, a deep scratch on his cheekbone, and a bad abrasion on his chin. Rodney suspected that the rest of John didn't look much better, but scrubs and a long-sleeved T-shirt concealed most of the other places on which bruises may have been located.

"Hey," Rodney said, putting his food bundle on John's bedside table.

"Hey."

Rodney stared at the IV tubing disappearing into John's sleeve for a bit and tried to think of suitable sickbed conversation.

"How are you?" he finally said, his eyes sliding down to the foot of the bed, where he could see a strangely shaped lump under the blanket. "How's the ankle?"

"I'll live." John didn't appear to be too convinced of that fact. "Ankle's not broken, thankfully. I tore a ligament, but Doc's been able to fix it." He tugged at the blanket until it rode up, exposing a contraption that reminded Rodney of a medieval torture device. "I've got to wear a brace for the next couple of weeks."

Rodney commiserated silently, being all too familiar with ankle injuries himself. He had inherited weak ankles from his mother, and invested a good amount of money into Ace bandages every year. Labs could be very dangerous places, particularly if there were laptop cords all over the place. Just last week, Kavanaugh's feet got tangled in an Ethernet cable whilst he was close to a Bunsen burner, but to everyone's disappointment his ponytail was only slightly singed.

"Want me to bring you anything?" Rodney finally asked, sliding his chair closer to the bed and looking at John worriedly.

"If you could get me another couple of pillows, I'd be really grateful," John said pointedly, and Rodney noticed that John was not sitting straight up but was somewhat contorted to the left. Mentally slapping himself, Rodney got up and wandered out into the infirmary and pilfered two of the fluffiest pillows he could find from the storage cart before returning to John's room.

"Thanks," John muttered, looking lovingly at the pillows. "Could you stick them behind my back, there - a bit lower, perhaps?" Rodney obliged, and John sank back with a grateful sigh, assuming a less contorted pose. "Oh, so much better – thanks."

Rodney sat back down and stared at John some more. No intelligent questions came to mind, and important conversation starters like "How are you?" and "How's the ankle?" had already been used.

"I'm grounded until the ankle's a hundred percent, at least for two weeks – would've been up to six weeks if they didn't use that Ancient healing machine thing," John finally said, realizing that this was a rare instance when Rodney was at loss for words. "By then, my ribs will probably be fine, and my head'll stop ringing sometime today. Beckett says there's no concussion, but he wants to keep me here overnight, just in case, since I passed out."

"You passed out?" Rodney asked, frowning. That was the first time he was hearing about it, certainly.

"Just for a couple of minutes," John volunteered sullenly.

Rodney fidgeted in his chair. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the medication... _Yeah, that was it. Carson must have given him some of that awful yellow crap, and John must be sore from all the bruises, so he's obviously not going to be Mr. Sunshine and Rainbows right now._

"I brought you some food," Rodney muttered, pointing at the bundle and hoping that John would be cheered up by the obviously non-hospital-issue food.

"Sorry, I'm not hungry..." John said without taking a glance at the nightstand.

Rodney was now feeling alarmed. John was never the one to turn down a good "real food" meal while sick. He was about to open his mouth and demand that John tell him how hurt he really was when the door opened and Nurse Heuberger appeared in the doorway, looking none too happy to see Rodney by her patient's bedside. She cleared her throat threateningly and narrowed her eyes.

Rodney gulped.

  
The infirmary door slammed shut behind Rodney, cutting off a string of Bavarian curses. Heuberger told him that she would give him a reason to stay in the infirmary if she saw him bothering the Colonel before the next morning, and he didn't doubt that, so he felt that it was prudent to retreat once more. He wasn't in the mood to go to the labs, and the mission debriefing was not until John would be well enough to attend it, so all that was left for Rodney to do was going to his room and moping, which he proceeded to do. He lay on his bed and looked at his diplomas until dinner, when he had a double portion again, and then back to staring at the wall it was. Rodney stared at the treacherous Northwestern University diploma that liked falling on his head in the early hours of the morning, his mind occupied with thoughts of John. 

_People came in two kinds,_ Rodney thought – _weak and strong, two identical sides of the bell curve,_ and he was the median, all alone on top and in the middle, intimidating both sides with his mind – overawing the weak and confounding the strong. Occasionally, a person on either side proved interesting enough for Rodney to look down at, and he or she held his attention for a day or so, or a week, if they were fortunate, and anybody who stuck in his mind for longer had to be truly exceptional, like Colonel Carter. Thus, Rodney had been completely flabbergasted by John Sheppard, who was a statistical aberration. He didn't fit into Rodney's neat statistical perception of people, and every time Rodney thought he was close to finally plotting John's location on it, John would do something that would upset all of his careful calculations.

Rodney had never believed in the whole "opposites attract" bit before Atlantis. Someone totally different from him was generally just boring, and unless he or she was very pretty, Rodney would ignore them until they went away. At the first glance, John had been just another dumb grunt with a gun, and military men just didn't do it for Rodney, even they were pretty, and the whole "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" thing didn't really help. Military women on the other hand – what geek wouldn't give his right hand for pretty chick that could shoot? But John, with his annoying drawl and crazy hair, seemed to have made it his goal in life to be a total distraction to Rodney.

First, he started to sprout random mathematical facts, and Rodney had almost drooled a little, because people who knew their numbers were such a turn-on to him. But damn it, how did John know that? Rodney tried to shake him off by talking about particle physics when they ate lunch together, but John just smiled at him and asked questions. Rodney changed tactics and borrowed the Major to be his lab rat for a week, but even an overdose of Rodney and his bad temper didn't seem to dampen John's spirits. Finally Rodney had no choice but give up and tolerate John's presence on the daily basis. Tolerance became acceptance, and that became friendship, and one night in the infirmary, friendship finally evolved into something more – _not love - not yet -_ Rodney's mind automatically added.

It had been their first mission with John since the retrovirus incident, and Rodney had discovered the hard way that he was really allergic to the tree sap the Catulang coated their arrows with, and the flesh wound in his thigh was quite benign in comparison with the allergic reaction that landed him in the infirmary for a week. The first two days after getting back from that God-forsaken planet were somewhat hazy and filled with constant puking and fever dreams of Kavanaugh receiving the Nobel Prize for proving the superstring theory. On the morning of the third day, Carson finally came up with an antidote, which helped with the puking but not so much with the fever and the migraines. It was then when Rodney became aware of John's voice, which was hoarse and tired-sounding and soothingly familiar and reading "War and Peace" to him.

"What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent!" Rodney cracked open an eye and saw John straddling a chair in his customary furniture-molesting manner, head bent over the book. "A strange face may seem unpleasant or painful to him at this moment of sorrow," John continued, stopping for a jaw-cracking yawn. Rodney finally got his other eye to open and stared at John's hair, his head strangely devoid of thoughts. "Besides, what can I say to him now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight of him?" John looked up from the book and noticed Rodney staring at him.

"Hey," he said, putting the book down on Rodney's bedside table and untangling himself from the chair. "You had us worried for a while. How're you feeling?"

"Itchy," Rodney rasped, suddenly realizing how irritated his skin felt. "And thirsty."

It seemed that John had been prepared for every eventuality because he immediately produced a cup with a straw and a clear jar of something that looked like Wraith vomit.

"So you're... moonlighting... as a nurse... now?" Rodney managed between sips of the divinely cold water. He managed to spill some in haste and discovered that he was not wearing a shirt, which was mildly disconcerting but would make his next task much easier.

John ignored that particular remark and gazed intently into the container of the gooey stuff.

"Doc said there would be a possibility you'd be a little itchy when you woke up, so he left whatever this is for you to use. He said you would know what to do with it." John's right eyebrow quirked up in tune with the corner of his mouth, and Rodney felt a little woozy for a moment.

"Uhm, it's probably one of our joint experiments," Rodney mumbled, and stared at the plastic tub affectionately. His back was starting to itch like crazy and his nose was beginning to twitch. John's eyebrow finally came down and he relinquished the anti-itch balm into Rodney's welcoming hands. After plunging both hands into the goo, Rodney began slathering it everywhere he could reach. Still, there was one little spot on his back which he couldn't reach, and of course, it itched the worst. He was contemplating scratching it against the bedrail when the itchy spot suddenly became blissfully cold and itch-less. Rodney looked over his shoulder, confused, and saw John, one hand still shiny with minty goo. Rodney's eyebrow went up, and he wondered what had just transpired, but he didn't ask, because he was sure he was still hallucinating a little bit from the antidote.

It was the next night, when John was reading him the chapter about a fancy ball, when the big realization hit Rodney head-on. If he thought back, he could remember exactly when it hit him – he looked up when John was turning a page, saw the light from the lamp flicker across John's face and remembered that not that long ago he had been the one sitting by John's bedside in his free time, trying to persuade himself that he was just a guy visiting a sick friend – nothing more than that, but something inside of him was telling him that this was a lot more than that, that he really cared about what happened to Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard, and not just in the friendly way. Rodney denied this, but he couldn't deny the anguish that he had felt when Sheppard was on the brink of death, and it still unsettled him, because he was not used to caring about anyone but himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Huge thanks for **Debris **for looking over this chapter for me. Also, I've changed the name of the story, so no, it's not your mind playing tricks on you...

* * *

part 3

Rodney's recurrent dream about his Nobel Prize acceptance speech was rudely interrupted by someone banging on his door like Atlantis was on fire. Rodney tried to ignore the noise and pulled a pillow over his head, but the banger seemed to be quite intent on getting Rodney up and moving, so Rodney rolled off the bed onto the floor, got himself upright, and stumbled to the door, banging his shin into a chair in the process.

"Coming, coming!" he yelled, blindly trying to find the door, intent on telling the person outside exactly what he thought of them. He gave a half-hearted wave at the door sensor and opened his mouth to utter some of the truly vile Russian words he had learned in Siberia. The door slid open, but none of the Russian obscenities escaped Rodney as the identity of the door banger was revealed.

"Good morning," John said, not sounding very convinced about the "good" part. He was dressed rather oddly – a decidedly out-of-place green sweater Rodney hadn't even known he owned and his baggiest pants that only stayed on by miracle, along with one boot. His injured foot sported a sock of dubious cleanliness and the torture instrument ­– ankle brace, Rodney corrected himself. The outfit was completed by aviator sunglasses that were hiding the double shiners, and a pair of crutches.

"Morning?" Rodney asked dumbly, wondering if he had somehow slept through a couple of days. The last time he had seen John the latter had been decidedly more horizontal and not expected to be hopping around Atlantis for several more days.

"You know, the time of day when people get up from their beds?" John leaned against the doorframe and gave Rodney a strange look over the top of his sunglasses, looking disturbingly like Rodney's grade six science teacher, Mr. Fennimore.

"What day is it?" Rodney asked, ignoring the strange look.

"Thursday, of course. What day is it supposed to be?"

"Thursday." Rodney gave John another unbelieving look. "Aren't you supposed to be, you know, in bed, or something?"

"I'm feeling better."

Yeah, there was a lie if he ever heard one, but Rodney knew it was useless to point it out, so he changed the topic. "So when's the debriefing, then?"

"In twenty minutes."

"Shit!" Rodney dashed to the closet and began to rummage though a mountain of laundry spilling out of it. "And you couldn't have woken me earlier?"

"I tried, but you turned your commlink off. And you've still got more than enough time to grab some breakfast."

"Grab being the operative word," Rodney groused, pulling a clean shirt over his head. "So do you want to grab some with me?"

"I've eaten already." John's tone left no room for arguing, and Rodney rolled his eyes. _Wonder what crawled up his ass and died._

* * *

Rodney hurried towards the conference rooms, eating a pastry as he walked. As he predicted, he didn't have time for a decent breakfast, and was forced to finish it on the run. He had walked together with John as far as the nearest transporter, where their ways had parted. Something was decidedly off, but Rodney couldn't put his finger on it; John seemed to have mellowed after they left the room, and even made a joke, but he wasn't himself. _Well, Rodney, getting your ass kicked isn't exactly conductive to good mood, _he told himself as he narrowly avoided crashing into a lab assistant who dashed around a corner suddenly. _But he'll get over it, just like he always does. _

The small conference room contained only Elizabeth and Teyla, and Rodney mentally congratulated himself on being rather prompt. After greeting them both he sat down on his favorite chair and retrieved another pastry from his pocket – since the main attraction of the debriefing wasn't here yet, he might as well have some more breakfast.

One pastry later, Caldwell appeared and engaged Elizabeth in some boring small talk, but there was still no sign either John or Jensen. Rodney fetched a cup of coffee and drank it slowly, listening to Caldwell and Elizabeth blathering on about supplies and schedules, and tons of other mundane things that held no interest for him. Thankfully, just before they could get into an in-depth discussion of lunch menus on the _Daedalus_ the two missing debriefees finally showed up. Rodney stealthily gazed at his watch and noted it was now almost twenty minutes after the agreed-upon time. _Great. I had to rush for nothing._

"Are you sure you're feeling better, John?" Elizabeth asked, worry evident in her voice. "I was not expecting to convene this debriefing until next week, to be truthful. If you'd like-"

"I'm fine," John interrupted her, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Teyla. "I'd rather we get it over with it now while the details are still fresh in my mind." He dropped into a chair next to Rodney, leaning the crutches against the table.

Teyla volunteered to give the lowdown about planet's inhabitants, and explained what the team already knew – Irulians hated Turmians' guts, and vice versa, so frequent mutual ass-kicking was rather commonplace on that planet.

Rodney spaced out for a bit during the latter part of Teyla's speech, but snapped out of his daze in time to give his analysis of their technological progress, which was not very glowing. From what little he had been able to learn from their guards and from observing, Rodney concluded that Irulians were nowhere near Genii in the terms of technology.

"It appears that their guns are their only weapons, and from what I observed, they're definitely not more advanced than late 19th century Earth." Jensen nodded in agreement. "I haven't noticed any scientific installations, or any scientists. If you ask me, they've been too busy fighting with the Turmians the old-fashioned way to think about developing weapons of mass destruction."

"I'm inclined to agree with Rodney," John finally spoke. "They were rather intrigued by our weapons, but since we managed to engage the bio-lock Dr. Erdely designed before handing them over, the weapons wouldn't work for them, and they quickly lost interest. They also didn't ask any questions about our technology when they interrogated us."

"Speaking of the interrogation," Elizabeth said, "did the Irulians initially indicate that they would use force to gain information?"

"No – their leader indicated that he was open to negotiations, but only with the Lieutenant and myself. Rodney and Teyla were excluded because they were not considered warriors."

"Still, after Dr. McKay and Teyla were gone, it was made rather clear to the two of us that the Irulians have a rather different idea of what negotiations are," Jensen finally spoke up. "Maxor – the leader – said he didn't believe a word we'd told him, and he would have the truth if he had to beat it out of us."

"There is one thing I am still not clear about – why were only you and the Lieutenant threatened with violence?" Caldwell interjected. "It seems somewhat illogical that they threatened soldiers before civilians."

"If I may explain – according to the Irulian warrior code, violence towards civilians is strictly prohibited, and harshly punished," Teyla interceded.

"Unfortunately, the same rule doesn't apply towards the members of the military," John muttered glumly. "Both of us refused to identify our home planet and origin several times, so Maxor resorted to torture to try and get this information."

Rodney had guessed that something along those lines had taken place, but to hear the confirmation from John himself made him angry that he couldn't do anything to stop it, and ashamed – while he was off being bored John was getting the crap kicked out of him. Rodney resolved to pay particular attention to John while he was recuperating, and actually cut down on his own working hours, however agonizing it would be.

"I am sorry, but I have to ask – did either of you reveal any information about the Atlantis expedition under duress?" Elizabeth asked, looking rather uncomfortable. _Well, anyone would be, in her place,_ Rodney thought, suddenly very happy about his own position in the Atlantis hierarchy.

"Of course not!" John's fist hit the table and a few empty coffee cups jumped and clattered forlornly. "We would not–"

"I believe you," Elizabeth interjected hastily, looking a bit perplexed by Sheppard's sudden ferocity. "I'm sorry if you thought that I insinuated something–"

"No, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I haven't slept well last night."

"Perfectly understandable," Elizabeth said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Does anyone have any further questions, or anything they would like to mention?"

"So in your opinion, members of the military would be in a particular danger of harm if we made another attempt to negotiate with the Irulian leadership?" Caldwell asked, looking up at John from his notepad.

"Definitely. An all-civilian negotiating team is the only way to go. But personally, I would feel better if we blacklisted this planet."

"I second the Colonel," Jensen said, throwing a glance at Sheppard. "I don't believe the Irulians would honor any agreements we would draw up. Those crazy bastards only understand force as a way of dealing with other people."

"And their only reactions to others are either to degrade them, if they're of equal strength, or disregard them, if they're weaker," John concluded.

"So, let's vote for or against blacklisting R9K-39F for the initial period of one month, with subsequent discussion of permanent blacklisting or other action?" Elizabeth asked the gathering. "Those for?" John's and Jensen's hands shot up almost as soon as the words left her mouth, followed quickly by Rodney's and Teyla's. Caldwell looked at his notes, frowned, and lifted his hand as well.

Elizabeth frowned a little. "So, it's unanimous for blacklisting, then. We're done for the moment, although I'd like everyone involved in this mission to come and talk with me in the coming days, one-on-one. Also please consider visiting Dr. Heightmeyer – she says she'll be available at any time that's convenient to you."

Everyone began getting up to get back to whatever they needed to be doing, but Rodney stayed back until only he and John were left in the room. John had made no move to get up from the chair, and Rodney paused, unsure of what to do.

"Do you need a hand up?" he offered. John grunted something, grabbed a crutch and extended his free hand towards Rodney, who took it as a "yes", grasped it, and gave it a somewhat overzealous tug that almost led to a collision. John managed to balance himself just before he crashed into Rodney, and glared at him, but Rodney couldn't miss a smile accompanying the glare.

"You know, I just needed to stand up, not to be launched into space," John complained good-naturedly as he picked up the second crutch. "But I can see you've definitely gained strength in that arm since the last time we've had to do this."

"Hey, what can I say, all that arm-wrestling with Ronon has really paid off," Rodney muttered, trying to hide his excitement about the improvement in John's mood. "Do you know when he's coming back from his trip?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"I never thought I'd say it, but I missed him. We could've used him yesterday–"

"I've got to go," John interrupted, looking irate again. "I've got some things to do." With that, he turned around and hobbled out of the room, leaving a rather confused Rodney behind. Rodney thought of chasing John down and making him confess what he had done to the real John Sheppard, but it seemed rather futile, so Rodney sighed, shrugged and retreated to his lab, hoping for a pleasant afternoon of tinkering with some Atlantean thingamajigs and poking holes in other people's theories.


End file.
